When Liberty lies wounded,And shrieks in wild despair,Then patriots will cast asideThe party garb they wear,And honest hands and hearts unite,To wash away the stainThat narrow-minded partisansWould selfishly maintain.Dear Goddess of our fathers!Our hands shall e'er maintainThe sacred trust of keeping freeThe realm where thou dost reign;And counting not our lives too dearTo offer unto thee,We dedicate all that we areTo our sweet Liberty.
When Liberty lies wounded,And shrieks in wild despair,Then patriots will cast asideThe party garb they wear,And honest hands and hearts unite,To wash away the stainThat narrow-minded partisansWould selfishly maintain.
Dear Goddess of our fathers!Our hands shall e'er maintainThe sacred trust of keeping freeThe realm where thou dost reign;And counting not our lives too dearTo offer unto thee,We dedicate all that we areTo our sweet Liberty.
I sat by the farm-house windowWhen the winter's sun was low,And looked on the clear horizonO'er fields white-crested with snow.A tree with its arms outstretching,Was limned on the distant sky,And my fancy saw a pictureSuch as gold can never buy.Perhaps to no other visionCould the scene be just the same,For blendings in the pictureHad on me a special claim.My mother oft had looked uponThat fair picture in the west,While sitting in that self-same chair,Ere she laid her down to rest.This gave a charm to the pictureOf especial power to me,And my vision saw a paintingThat none else on earth could see.I can close my eyes at twilightThough now many miles away,And see that lovely horizonAt close of expiring day.I can see the true formationOf each rock and tree and field,In a perfect panoramaThat time has not yet concealed.It is not an idle fancyFor me now to paint the scene,Since my mother's form has fadedFrom the place where she has been.I know it affords me comfortTo recall from day to day,That scene from the farm-house window,Since my mother passed away.
I sat by the farm-house windowWhen the winter's sun was low,And looked on the clear horizonO'er fields white-crested with snow.
A tree with its arms outstretching,Was limned on the distant sky,And my fancy saw a pictureSuch as gold can never buy.
Perhaps to no other visionCould the scene be just the same,For blendings in the pictureHad on me a special claim.
My mother oft had looked uponThat fair picture in the west,While sitting in that self-same chair,Ere she laid her down to rest.
This gave a charm to the pictureOf especial power to me,And my vision saw a paintingThat none else on earth could see.
I can close my eyes at twilightThough now many miles away,And see that lovely horizonAt close of expiring day.
I can see the true formationOf each rock and tree and field,In a perfect panoramaThat time has not yet concealed.
It is not an idle fancyFor me now to paint the scene,Since my mother's form has fadedFrom the place where she has been.
I know it affords me comfortTo recall from day to day,That scene from the farm-house window,Since my mother passed away.
After forty years.
Sacred these walls wherein I findMyself inclosed once more;Here in youth's pride my ardent mindOn nightly tasks would pore.Sweet were these tasks, for mental powerComes with each duty done;And ray of light charmed midnight's hourWhen thought its victory won.Oft did the battle seem severe,Sometimes defeat seemed nigh,But pride and love must persevereWhen all our powers we try.Struggles bring a developmentThat will not brook defeat;Within us dwells an elementThat makes just contest sweet.If barriers in our mental pathStand like a sullen foe,Summon the soul, in righteous wrathStrike a decisive blow,And spare not till the victoryPuts ignorance to flight;And let the battle-cry e'er beScience and Truth and Right!Such victories, when fairly won,Put slaughter's field to shame,And Honor's self shall place uponSuch victors, wreaths of fame.O happy hours within these walls,But happier far to meIs the expanded mind which callsDeep thought, best liberty.That mental power which sees the worldAs beauty, grace, and art,Wherein God's loveliness unfurled,Speaks to a living heart,And leads it tenderly to seeThe harmony of lawsWhich unifies immensity,And tells of the First Cause,Yields greater solace, richer lore,Than books alone can give;For mind and soul form the great powerBy which we act and live.The wealth that dignifies mankindIs not in bonds and stocks,But in rich thoughts, noble, refined,Needing no bars nor locks.When man for manhood more shall strive,And less for greed and gain,The humble poor may nobly live,And feel not hunger's pain.These walls are sacred unto me,For thought here learned to soarAnd build the ark of libertyI love, exalt, adore.
Sacred these walls wherein I findMyself inclosed once more;Here in youth's pride my ardent mindOn nightly tasks would pore.
Sweet were these tasks, for mental powerComes with each duty done;And ray of light charmed midnight's hourWhen thought its victory won.
Oft did the battle seem severe,Sometimes defeat seemed nigh,But pride and love must persevereWhen all our powers we try.
Struggles bring a developmentThat will not brook defeat;Within us dwells an elementThat makes just contest sweet.
If barriers in our mental pathStand like a sullen foe,Summon the soul, in righteous wrathStrike a decisive blow,
And spare not till the victoryPuts ignorance to flight;And let the battle-cry e'er beScience and Truth and Right!
Such victories, when fairly won,Put slaughter's field to shame,And Honor's self shall place uponSuch victors, wreaths of fame.
O happy hours within these walls,But happier far to meIs the expanded mind which callsDeep thought, best liberty.
That mental power which sees the worldAs beauty, grace, and art,Wherein God's loveliness unfurled,Speaks to a living heart,
And leads it tenderly to seeThe harmony of lawsWhich unifies immensity,And tells of the First Cause,
Yields greater solace, richer lore,Than books alone can give;For mind and soul form the great powerBy which we act and live.
The wealth that dignifies mankindIs not in bonds and stocks,But in rich thoughts, noble, refined,Needing no bars nor locks.
When man for manhood more shall strive,And less for greed and gain,The humble poor may nobly live,And feel not hunger's pain.
These walls are sacred unto me,For thought here learned to soarAnd build the ark of libertyI love, exalt, adore.
Every tree and plant, every tiny flowerThat grows in wood or field,Hath a voice that calls aloud to me,And a beauty half concealed,That draw my ears to hear a strainOf music sweet and low,And paint for me far richer huesThan the sunset's evening glow;They speak to me as no tongue can speak;Their voices are sweeter farThan the tones that fall from human lips,Or strains of sweet music are.
Every tree and plant, every tiny flowerThat grows in wood or field,Hath a voice that calls aloud to me,And a beauty half concealed,That draw my ears to hear a strainOf music sweet and low,And paint for me far richer huesThan the sunset's evening glow;They speak to me as no tongue can speak;Their voices are sweeter farThan the tones that fall from human lips,Or strains of sweet music are.
Perhaps no spot upon this sphere,Has charms for me more sacred, dear,Than those of old Poundridge;I love her hills, her lakes, her streams,Her rural haunts, where Nature teemsWith joys naught can abridge.Her dew-bespangled meadows shineWith gems of radiance so divine,When touched by matin sun,That myriad pendant drops of dew,Lend to the mead a brilliant hueLike earth with diamonds strown.The woods that sleep on distant hills,Or watch o'er gently murmuring rills,Seem restful to the soul;Their silence brings sweetest repose,A panacea for the woesThat spurnM. D.'scontrol.The healthful, healing, peaceful rest,To frame fatigued, to mind distressed,Seems but a foretaste here,Of that serene and blest abode,Which to the faithful child of GodHereafter shall appear.I love the rustic's rough demesne,Which yields to toil a wealth unseenTo those of civic life;For here I drank, in youth's bright dawn,The draughts of vigor which were drawnFrom labor's busy strife.I love the house wherein I played,The yard o'erspread by maple's shade,The nearby babbling brook;The fields o'er which my youthful feetSped onward toward the trout's retreat,With dangling line and hook.I love the path across the woodWhich once I trod in search of foodFor hungering, thirsting mind,The room where pupils used to meetAnd strive to make their work completeAnd manners more refined.All these I love for what is past,And still must love while life shall last;But I do love still moreThe souls who fired my mental lamp,And on my character did stampTruths fraught with richest lore.I see my aged mother there,My father in his old arm-chair,And fancy hears their voice;My brother yet so full of joy,Has passed the limits of a boy,But still can much rejoice.Upon the hill, the lakes between,Are sacred mounds of living green,Where sleep my precious dead;A vacant spot reserved for me,To which my heart looks longingly,Invites my weary head.No greater boon could I e'er askWhen I have finished earthly task,Than quietly to rest,Surrounded by her vales and hills,Her laughing lakes and singing rills,And friends that I love best.Tho' many years now intervene,My mind recalls each boyhood sceneOf field and wood and bridge;These cherished memories only proveAbiding faith and filial loveToward restful, old Poundridge.
Perhaps no spot upon this sphere,Has charms for me more sacred, dear,Than those of old Poundridge;I love her hills, her lakes, her streams,Her rural haunts, where Nature teemsWith joys naught can abridge.
Her dew-bespangled meadows shineWith gems of radiance so divine,When touched by matin sun,That myriad pendant drops of dew,Lend to the mead a brilliant hueLike earth with diamonds strown.
The woods that sleep on distant hills,Or watch o'er gently murmuring rills,Seem restful to the soul;Their silence brings sweetest repose,A panacea for the woesThat spurnM. D.'scontrol.
The healthful, healing, peaceful rest,To frame fatigued, to mind distressed,Seems but a foretaste here,Of that serene and blest abode,Which to the faithful child of GodHereafter shall appear.
I love the rustic's rough demesne,Which yields to toil a wealth unseenTo those of civic life;For here I drank, in youth's bright dawn,The draughts of vigor which were drawnFrom labor's busy strife.
I love the house wherein I played,The yard o'erspread by maple's shade,The nearby babbling brook;The fields o'er which my youthful feetSped onward toward the trout's retreat,With dangling line and hook.
I love the path across the woodWhich once I trod in search of foodFor hungering, thirsting mind,The room where pupils used to meetAnd strive to make their work completeAnd manners more refined.
All these I love for what is past,And still must love while life shall last;But I do love still moreThe souls who fired my mental lamp,And on my character did stampTruths fraught with richest lore.
I see my aged mother there,My father in his old arm-chair,And fancy hears their voice;My brother yet so full of joy,Has passed the limits of a boy,But still can much rejoice.
Upon the hill, the lakes between,Are sacred mounds of living green,Where sleep my precious dead;A vacant spot reserved for me,To which my heart looks longingly,Invites my weary head.
No greater boon could I e'er askWhen I have finished earthly task,Than quietly to rest,Surrounded by her vales and hills,Her laughing lakes and singing rills,And friends that I love best.
Tho' many years now intervene,My mind recalls each boyhood sceneOf field and wood and bridge;These cherished memories only proveAbiding faith and filial loveToward restful, old Poundridge.
We remember well when a schoolboy,When pliant in mind and limb,We had for a boon companion,A bright youth whose name was Tim.He was sturdy, strong, and honest,In body and mind he had vim,So we learned by intuition,To place much reliance on Tim.We fished and hunted together,In summer, the lakes we would swim,Skated their surface in winter,With mercurial, wonderful Tim.Our tasks at school were a union,And when thoughts were distant or dim,A light illumined the pages,That seemed a reflection from Tim.Reciprocal visits were often,He slept with me, I slept with him,Talked till near dawn of daylight,With fluent and scholarly Tim.Decades have passed since that season,My hair is reduced to a rim,But my heart beats as warm as ever,For that friend of my youth, named Tim.As years fleet away, we treasureThe power of our mind to skimO'er the scenes of early doings,With valiant and trustworthy Tim.A third of a century over,Still a friend have we now like him,Exact in his every bearing,And his name is—unchanged—Tim.We wonder if in the hereafter,When we range with the Seraphim,Happiness will be augmentedBy the kindly presence of Tim.We trust an expanded missionWill fill us with joy to the brim,As we ramble the fields of glory,With genial and faithful friend Tim.
We remember well when a schoolboy,When pliant in mind and limb,We had for a boon companion,A bright youth whose name was Tim.
He was sturdy, strong, and honest,In body and mind he had vim,So we learned by intuition,To place much reliance on Tim.
We fished and hunted together,In summer, the lakes we would swim,Skated their surface in winter,With mercurial, wonderful Tim.
Our tasks at school were a union,And when thoughts were distant or dim,A light illumined the pages,That seemed a reflection from Tim.
Reciprocal visits were often,He slept with me, I slept with him,Talked till near dawn of daylight,With fluent and scholarly Tim.
Decades have passed since that season,My hair is reduced to a rim,But my heart beats as warm as ever,For that friend of my youth, named Tim.
As years fleet away, we treasureThe power of our mind to skimO'er the scenes of early doings,With valiant and trustworthy Tim.
A third of a century over,Still a friend have we now like him,Exact in his every bearing,And his name is—unchanged—Tim.
We wonder if in the hereafter,When we range with the Seraphim,Happiness will be augmentedBy the kindly presence of Tim.
We trust an expanded missionWill fill us with joy to the brim,As we ramble the fields of glory,With genial and faithful friend Tim.
On receiving sprigs of Forget-me-not and Lilly-of-the-Valley in envelope, through mail, with no note or name inclosed.
In form it was a letter,Unique in its every part,The expression could not be better,For it touched my inmost heart.No pen had marred its beauty,No ink had traced a line,It did its silent dutyLike a messenger divine.Upon its page was writtenNo English, French, nor Greek;But a universal languageThat only flowers can speak.The colors were pure whitenessAnd heavenly tints of blue,Excelling all the brightnessThat art can bring to view.The Lily-of-the-ValleyAnd sweet Forget-me-not,That grow where perfumes dallyIn sweet secluded spot,When sent to tell some storyThat words cannot express,Are fraught with special gloryAnd richest tenderness.Their perfumes speak of gladness,Their colors of delight,They neutralize dull sadness,Turn darkness into light.They link the heart of senderTo heart to which they're sent,And unto both will renderThe sweetness of content.I love them for their clearness,Their whiteness and their blue;But added to such dearnessIs the thought they came from you.
In form it was a letter,Unique in its every part,The expression could not be better,For it touched my inmost heart.
No pen had marred its beauty,No ink had traced a line,It did its silent dutyLike a messenger divine.
Upon its page was writtenNo English, French, nor Greek;But a universal languageThat only flowers can speak.
The colors were pure whitenessAnd heavenly tints of blue,Excelling all the brightnessThat art can bring to view.
The Lily-of-the-ValleyAnd sweet Forget-me-not,That grow where perfumes dallyIn sweet secluded spot,
When sent to tell some storyThat words cannot express,Are fraught with special gloryAnd richest tenderness.
Their perfumes speak of gladness,Their colors of delight,They neutralize dull sadness,Turn darkness into light.
They link the heart of senderTo heart to which they're sent,And unto both will renderThe sweetness of content.
I love them for their clearness,Their whiteness and their blue;But added to such dearnessIs the thought they came from you.
On being asked to write an original poem.
"There's no new thing under the sun,"Said the ancient priest and preacher;What seems now new is only doneTo quicken some old featureThat lies effete, or badly worn,And lacks its pristine rigor,That needs an energizing touchTo give it life and vigor.The sun that shines on us to-day,Shone on our ancient parentsWho walked upon the primal clay;And science fully warrantsThat not one atom has been lost,And not one atom addedTo all the atom matter host,Although some forms have faded.The gorgeous colors that are castOn cloud-land morn and even,Are but reflections of the pastThat erst had spangled heavenWith glories from that mystic throneWhose blendings none can rival,But whose expiring tints, alone,Admit of a revival.The rain that drops has dropped before;Our flowers were another's;The songs we sing were sung of yoreBy long departed brothers;The sounds we hear are but the tonesOr echoes of the past;We live among the mouldering bonesOf forms too frail to last.Then ask me not for something new,All things are second-handed,The old may sometimes be more trueThan that more lately branded;But taking things as best we can,We know 'tis only humanTo shun a second-handed man,Or a second-handed woman.But let us not be too severeOn second-handed matter,For nothing seems to be more clearThan that we should not flatterOur souls into a fatal state,Of scoffing at the common,For who can tell what cruel fateMay make of man or woman?
"There's no new thing under the sun,"Said the ancient priest and preacher;What seems now new is only doneTo quicken some old featureThat lies effete, or badly worn,And lacks its pristine rigor,That needs an energizing touchTo give it life and vigor.
The sun that shines on us to-day,Shone on our ancient parentsWho walked upon the primal clay;And science fully warrantsThat not one atom has been lost,And not one atom addedTo all the atom matter host,Although some forms have faded.
The gorgeous colors that are castOn cloud-land morn and even,Are but reflections of the pastThat erst had spangled heavenWith glories from that mystic throneWhose blendings none can rival,But whose expiring tints, alone,Admit of a revival.
The rain that drops has dropped before;Our flowers were another's;The songs we sing were sung of yoreBy long departed brothers;The sounds we hear are but the tonesOr echoes of the past;We live among the mouldering bonesOf forms too frail to last.
Then ask me not for something new,All things are second-handed,The old may sometimes be more trueThan that more lately branded;But taking things as best we can,We know 'tis only humanTo shun a second-handed man,Or a second-handed woman.
But let us not be too severeOn second-handed matter,For nothing seems to be more clearThan that we should not flatterOur souls into a fatal state,Of scoffing at the common,For who can tell what cruel fateMay make of man or woman?
One may read from the face at leisure,From the leaf that reflects the soul,The thought, the desire, and the measureThat imprint on the facial scrollThe innermost mind and its actions,The heart with its strongest desires,The passions, impulses, and factionsWhich animate clay oft inspires.Ev'ry line of th' face has a fatherWhose hand has engraven it there,But shades of the spirit are ratherBetrayed in the hue of the hair;The pencils of thought, true to nature,Have written their records so plain,That a skillful eye reads each featureThat dwells in the heart and the brain.One may peep into occult recessesWhich only the face will reveal,May read what the tongue quite repressesBut the eye cannot fully conceal,May fathom the deepest depressionsWhere the soul has buried its woe,Where the heart would hold secret sessionsWith scenes and events long ago.
One may read from the face at leisure,From the leaf that reflects the soul,The thought, the desire, and the measureThat imprint on the facial scrollThe innermost mind and its actions,The heart with its strongest desires,The passions, impulses, and factionsWhich animate clay oft inspires.
Ev'ry line of th' face has a fatherWhose hand has engraven it there,But shades of the spirit are ratherBetrayed in the hue of the hair;The pencils of thought, true to nature,Have written their records so plain,That a skillful eye reads each featureThat dwells in the heart and the brain.
One may peep into occult recessesWhich only the face will reveal,May read what the tongue quite repressesBut the eye cannot fully conceal,May fathom the deepest depressionsWhere the soul has buried its woe,Where the heart would hold secret sessionsWith scenes and events long ago.
The writer applying for a room at Newpoint Inn, Amityville, Long Island, was informed that the house was full. Some friends, stopping near, kindly invited him to go with them. He accepted. After his departure he sent the following:
"I was a stranger and ye took me in,Hungry and ye fed me,"No place for me at Newpoint Inn,So home you kindly led me.Some say the world is cold and sour,Devoid of fellow-feeling,But day by day and hour by hour,To me comes a revealingThat warm hearts beat where'er we go,Kind hands are gladly servingThe kindred hearts which ever showThey truly are deserving.The world, indeed, may frigid beWhen icebergs float around it,But warm, true hearts of constancy,Have uniformly found itTo be a place where fragrant flowersDeprive the thorns of stings,Where sunny souls spend happy hours,And Nature laughs and sings.We make our paths, we dwell the livesSelected by ourselves;We shape the destiny that givesOur fate to gods or elves.Then let us know this truth full wellWherever we may be,We have a power to help us dwellIn theville of amity.
"I was a stranger and ye took me in,Hungry and ye fed me,"No place for me at Newpoint Inn,So home you kindly led me.
Some say the world is cold and sour,Devoid of fellow-feeling,But day by day and hour by hour,To me comes a revealing
That warm hearts beat where'er we go,Kind hands are gladly servingThe kindred hearts which ever showThey truly are deserving.
The world, indeed, may frigid beWhen icebergs float around it,But warm, true hearts of constancy,Have uniformly found it
To be a place where fragrant flowersDeprive the thorns of stings,Where sunny souls spend happy hours,And Nature laughs and sings.
We make our paths, we dwell the livesSelected by ourselves;We shape the destiny that givesOur fate to gods or elves.
Then let us know this truth full wellWherever we may be,We have a power to help us dwellIn theville of amity.
Robin is a singer; sweet and pure and clearAre the notes he warbles from his covert near;Softly, oh! how softly, at the sunset's glowDoes he chant his vespers, plaintive, sweet, and low.Robin is an artist; he beautifies the stream,The vale, the hill, the meadow, until they truly seemTo glow, because his presence gives to each a tongueTo echo back the music his minstrel throat has sung.
Robin is a singer; sweet and pure and clearAre the notes he warbles from his covert near;Softly, oh! how softly, at the sunset's glowDoes he chant his vespers, plaintive, sweet, and low.
Robin is an artist; he beautifies the stream,The vale, the hill, the meadow, until they truly seemTo glow, because his presence gives to each a tongueTo echo back the music his minstrel throat has sung.
The smallest type of manhood that lives,(If manhood it may be called,)Is that which knows no power but wealthThat is measured in stocks and gold;It looks in disdain on a working manWho declines to bend his knee,Though in honor's scales he may outweighThe scorner, in great degree.There's a wealth that far surpasses allThe houses and stocks and gold,That ever was on the market placed,To be by a hireling sold;'Tis the wealth of manhood, noble, free,And an independent mindThat scorns to swerve from justice and truth,But faithfully serves mankind.
The smallest type of manhood that lives,(If manhood it may be called,)Is that which knows no power but wealthThat is measured in stocks and gold;It looks in disdain on a working manWho declines to bend his knee,Though in honor's scales he may outweighThe scorner, in great degree.
There's a wealth that far surpasses allThe houses and stocks and gold,That ever was on the market placed,To be by a hireling sold;'Tis the wealth of manhood, noble, free,And an independent mindThat scorns to swerve from justice and truth,But faithfully serves mankind.
Dedicated to my Ex-Pier.
One pious afternoon in JuneWhen pyronomics held full sway,My pilot, fancy, led me onTo seek new fields, piebald and gay.The pianet rested in shade,The lark, piano-voiced, sang not,But pining for some genial maidTo pioneer me to a spot,Where pine or oak might shield from heat,My thoughts turned piously to wherePierian pleasures one might meet,And pious converse jointly share.Pyrometers were all at home—No doubt the figures mounted high—She sighed and said she could not roam,Then pitt (i) ed me with cherry pie.Piacular may she not be,And thus escape the eternal pyre,No pirate's heart would dance with gleeLike mine, to see that maid—Ex-Pier.
One pious afternoon in JuneWhen pyronomics held full sway,My pilot, fancy, led me onTo seek new fields, piebald and gay.
The pianet rested in shade,The lark, piano-voiced, sang not,But pining for some genial maidTo pioneer me to a spot,
Where pine or oak might shield from heat,My thoughts turned piously to wherePierian pleasures one might meet,And pious converse jointly share.
Pyrometers were all at home—No doubt the figures mounted high—She sighed and said she could not roam,Then pitt (i) ed me with cherry pie.
Piacular may she not be,And thus escape the eternal pyre,No pirate's heart would dance with gleeLike mine, to see that maid—Ex-Pier.
A Legend of Trinity Lake, Poundridge, N. Y.
Read at a Farmers' Picnic, Trinity Lake, Sept. 1, 1891.
The Rippowams were a tribe of Indians living along the Sound near Stamford and Norwalk, Ct., and extended their territory for some miles northward. The Kitchewonks were a tribe living on the Hudson, near Sing Sing and Peekskill, N. Y., and found their way eastward. In the early days of the Indian occupation of these lands the Rippowams followed up the stream running from the three lakes—Round Pond, Middle Pond, and Lower Pond—while the Kitchewonks followed that branch of the Croton which finds its source in Cross Pond, now Lake Kitchewan. For the possession of these grounds there were frequent battles between these tribes, as the lake-land abounded in fish and game. The intercourse between these tribes, both belonging to the Mohegans, was very limited, at first, but in course of time became more frequent and friendly. A lime and marble ridge separates Lake Kitchewan from the three lower lakes and forms a watershed between the Hudson and the sound.
In recent years a dam was constructed by the Stamford Water Co., and the three lakes were made into one, and very appropriately called thereafter, Trinity. The lakes are supplied almost entirely by springs, as no streams of any size empty into them.
For several years, in the spring time, a floating island appeared in Trinity, upon which vegetation grew abundantly. This island sank upon the approach of cold weather and remained in a state of hibernation until the spring came. Some person or persons who had no love for the romantic, curious, and beautiful, loaded it so heavily with stones that it sank to rise no more.
In its departure the lake sustained the loss of an attraction which is known in but few lakes in the world.
A large rock, estimated to weigh eight or ten tons, is so nicely poised upon another rook, upon a high point about fifty rods west of the lake, that a gentle pressure of the hand will cause it to rock perceptibly.
Directly opposite the picnic grounds are precipitous rocks, below which the waters are extremely deep.—The Author.
When the infant world in its swaddling bandOf mist and cloud and storm,Assumed its forms of sea and land,And the lakes and streams were born,In this western world, on the eastern shore,Four leagues from the inland sea,Came a liquid crown set with jewels four,But in union only three;For the northern gem was a solitaireAnd barred from the lesser three,By a marble wall wrought strong and fairBy the hand of Divinity.A silver thread from the TrinityRan southward through the wood,Till it lost its flow in the land-locked sea,And was merged in old Neptune's flood;But the northern gem in a mystic raceSent a message toward the west,And linked itself in the kind embraceOf the Hudson grandly dressed.Ten thousand moons had waxed and wanedAnd flung on the mirror sheetA train of beauty, with no discord stainedSince creation stood complete.Here antlered deer had slaked their thirstAnd fought their imaged form;Here rolling tones of thunder burst,As a harbinger of storm;Here song of bird and sigh of breezeHad ne'er met human ear;The beast on land, the fowl on treesDwelt here in peace and knew no fear.Brave Kitchewonks had traced their wayAlong the stream that westward ran,While Rippowams pursued their preyUntil this lake-land was their van.'Twas here Mohegan met againThe blood that in Mohegan flowed,But each regarded not the vein,Though kinsmen, foes they firmly stood.This lake-land, rich in fish and game,Was ground for strife and war and blood;From west and south the warriors cameIn battle paint and surly mood.The Kitchewonks near northern lakeUpon the Rippowams looked down,And hoped their power and pride to breakE'er harvest-moon had fully grown.Almetaon the western streamNow mourned her absentPonomo,For harvest-moon had sent its gleamAcross the Hudson's tidal flow,And at its full he was to come,And her to lake-land safely guide,Where they should make their future home,And she should there become his bride.But he had with Rippowams' band,Marched forth to meet her kinsmen dear,And face to face they sternly standPrepared for battle-storm severe.Her heart bid her to dare the shockAnd seek him near the hostile camp;Her mind her heart would basely mock,And boding fears her ardor damp;The bondage of her heart so greatHer coward mind could never free;She heeds no danger, dares all fate,And this her brief soliloquy:"I know that tribal laws demandMy life if I should thither flee,I must obey that great command—God's higher law—fidelity.No other lips my lips have pressed,No other arms encircled me,Since he my maiden form caressedAnd each breathed vows of constancy.For me at each returning moonHe journeyed through the forest wild,Braved dangers that my heart hath won,And now I must not be defiledBy any doubt or any fearThat death or suffering may bring.I'd count such sacrifice not dearIf I must be an offering."What though my blood may stain the soil,Devotion mark me for a slaveThrough weary years to strive and toil,Or fate should sink me 'neath the wave!'Twere better far that such should beThan I should violate my heartAnd all that's sacred unto meBy acting a base traitor's part.I must away, I must awayTo meet him by the silvery lake!'Tis crime for me to longer stayI will not, cannot now forsake."She speeds along the forest trailWhere warriors late in painted form,Had marched through Kitchewan's fair valeTo meet their foes in battle-storm.Her eyes are watchful to survey,Her ears detect the lightest sound,Her heart and mind to her betrayWhere barriers to her flight are found.She shuns them all by tact and skill;Most gladly she to him will proveThe power that's in a woman's will,The faith that's in a woman's love.From hill and ledge she scans the groundWhile dangers seem her faith to mock;But highest point by her is found,She stands upon the swaying rock,Which seems unsteady 'neath her feet,And makes her doubt if she can standTo make inspection so complete,She may discernPonomo'sband.The trembling rock and trembling heartAre firmly fixed, no power can move;But from its crest she must departIn search of him her heart doth love.She stands beside the central lakeAlong whose shores the war-whoop rang,And softly for her own heart's sake,This song of harvest-moon she sang:"The hunter's moon now floods the nightTurns darkness into day,The wood and lake in mellow light,Charm grief and care away."The sparkling water's silvery gleamMy sorrow soothes for me,And lifts my soul in fancy's dreamTo thoughts so pure and free."So bright the light that fills the night,The song-birds sweetly sing;From tree to tree they take their flightOn swift yet noiseless wing."Now come,Ponomo, come to me,I wait your coming here;You promised 'neath this hemlock tree,At midnight to appear."My heart, my life, my all is yours,And you are all to me;Faith trusts your promise and assuresUnchanged fidelity."I know your heart is warm and true,Your love not cold or dumb,No earthly power can it subdue;I know that you will come."She hears a footstep drawing near;Her voice is mute, her song is done,She waits,Ponomoto appear,In shadowed silence all alone.Beneath lugubrious hemlock shadeHer heart beats with expectancy,And Kitchewonk's own dusky maidTrusts Rippowam's fidelity.He comes! She sees him near the lake;She knows his form, his step, his voice;No other charm for her could makeHer heart and soul so much rejoice.They meet beside the water's edgeWhere hemlock boughs in silence nod,And there with mutual vow and pledge,In presence of their living God,They join the hand, the heart, the life,While harvest-moon a witness stood,That he the husband, she the wife,Should share in life's vicissitude.That sacred pledge was heard on highAnd written by an angel hand,Nor priest, nor king, nor majesty,Could marriage rites perform more grand.No tribal laws or priestly handCan rivet adverse hearts in one;Compulsion has no iron bandSo strong it may not be undone;But ties of mutual interestThat spring spontaneous from the soul,Are never by themselves oppressed,Their silken cords have full control.To know, to feel, to fully shareThe joys and sorrows of this life,Unites the souls of mated pair,And make the husband and the wife.PonomoandAlmetathere,Where juts of rocks 'neath hemlock boughs,Had breathed a mutual, fervent prayer,And each to each pledged sacred vows,When o'er the lake the war-whoop rang,And Kitchewonks, on every side,Swept down with shout and yell and clang,UponPonomoand his bride.On north and south, and on the west,No way of flight then could they take,So from the rough rocks' rugged sideThey plunged into the central lake.A hundred arrows cleft the air,But one alone had reached its mark.Ponomofelt it roughly tearIts way into his faithful heart.He shrieked and sank beneath the wave,Almetafollowed after him;Their bridal couch was watery grave,The war-whoop was their requiem.The savage yell of victoryRe-echoed then from shore to shore,While every rock and every treeSeemed deeply tinged with human gore,For when the moon from heavenly throneLooked down and saw the ghastly deed,It veiled itself and feebly shone,As if in agony to pleadThat human souls might ever knowThat God himself cannot approveThe hand that strikes avenging blow,The soul devoid fraternal love.'Neath crystal waters of the lake,In silent, undisturbed repose,Where sounds of strife no slumbers break,Heedless alike of friends and foes,They slept the long, long sleep of death,Through centuries of rolling years,While o'er their forms the zephyrs' breathIn playful eddyings oft appears.Their race has faded from the shoreAnd left few traces that they were;The war-whoop now resounds no more,They bowed before White Conqueror.Full many a fathom 'neath the wave,Their forms have mouldered side by side,While shadowy hemlocks fringe the graveOf darkPonomoand his bride.The waters then were deeper madeWhich gave their spirits much unrest,The lake their agony betrayedAnd seemed on every side distressed.One spring when Nature gaily dressedWith charms that could the mind beguile,There rose upon the lake's fair breastA hibernating, floating isle.Devoid of life it seemed at first,Chaotic, dull, with beauty none,But rays of sunshine on it burstAnd changed it to a paragon.Two alders sprang from near its edgeAnd twined in close embrace,While ferns and grass gave certain pledgeThat Time should give it smiling face.But when the frosts of autumn fellIt sank from sight, perchance to rest;No searching mind could ever tellThe secret of its rising crest.For years, at each returning spring,The isle would rise from 'neath the wave,As if to memory to bringPonomoandAlmeta'sgrave.But when the harvest-moon shone bright,It meekly sank; as years beforeWhen on that dread, but fatal night,The faithful sank by rock-bound shore.Its verdure grew, its alders spread,Its fame extended many a mile,'Twas type of resurrected dead—This hibernating, floating isle.But vandal hands destroyed the prizeAnd sank it 'neath a weight of stones,WhileAlmetasends forth her sighs,AndPonomoemits his groans.Here let them rest, if rest they may,Amid the beauteous scenes around,And wait in peace the final day,When at the angel's trumpet sound,The water shall give up its prey,The earth shall full surrender make,For heaven has not a type to-day,More perfect than this sky-blue lake.
When the infant world in its swaddling bandOf mist and cloud and storm,Assumed its forms of sea and land,And the lakes and streams were born,In this western world, on the eastern shore,Four leagues from the inland sea,Came a liquid crown set with jewels four,But in union only three;For the northern gem was a solitaireAnd barred from the lesser three,By a marble wall wrought strong and fairBy the hand of Divinity.
A silver thread from the TrinityRan southward through the wood,Till it lost its flow in the land-locked sea,And was merged in old Neptune's flood;But the northern gem in a mystic raceSent a message toward the west,And linked itself in the kind embraceOf the Hudson grandly dressed.
Ten thousand moons had waxed and wanedAnd flung on the mirror sheetA train of beauty, with no discord stainedSince creation stood complete.Here antlered deer had slaked their thirstAnd fought their imaged form;Here rolling tones of thunder burst,As a harbinger of storm;Here song of bird and sigh of breezeHad ne'er met human ear;The beast on land, the fowl on treesDwelt here in peace and knew no fear.
Brave Kitchewonks had traced their wayAlong the stream that westward ran,While Rippowams pursued their preyUntil this lake-land was their van.'Twas here Mohegan met againThe blood that in Mohegan flowed,But each regarded not the vein,Though kinsmen, foes they firmly stood.This lake-land, rich in fish and game,Was ground for strife and war and blood;From west and south the warriors cameIn battle paint and surly mood.The Kitchewonks near northern lakeUpon the Rippowams looked down,And hoped their power and pride to breakE'er harvest-moon had fully grown.
Almetaon the western streamNow mourned her absentPonomo,For harvest-moon had sent its gleamAcross the Hudson's tidal flow,And at its full he was to come,And her to lake-land safely guide,Where they should make their future home,And she should there become his bride.But he had with Rippowams' band,Marched forth to meet her kinsmen dear,And face to face they sternly standPrepared for battle-storm severe.
Her heart bid her to dare the shockAnd seek him near the hostile camp;Her mind her heart would basely mock,And boding fears her ardor damp;The bondage of her heart so greatHer coward mind could never free;She heeds no danger, dares all fate,And this her brief soliloquy:
"I know that tribal laws demandMy life if I should thither flee,I must obey that great command—God's higher law—fidelity.No other lips my lips have pressed,No other arms encircled me,Since he my maiden form caressedAnd each breathed vows of constancy.For me at each returning moonHe journeyed through the forest wild,Braved dangers that my heart hath won,And now I must not be defiledBy any doubt or any fearThat death or suffering may bring.I'd count such sacrifice not dearIf I must be an offering.
"What though my blood may stain the soil,Devotion mark me for a slaveThrough weary years to strive and toil,Or fate should sink me 'neath the wave!'Twere better far that such should beThan I should violate my heartAnd all that's sacred unto meBy acting a base traitor's part.I must away, I must awayTo meet him by the silvery lake!'Tis crime for me to longer stayI will not, cannot now forsake."
She speeds along the forest trailWhere warriors late in painted form,Had marched through Kitchewan's fair valeTo meet their foes in battle-storm.Her eyes are watchful to survey,Her ears detect the lightest sound,Her heart and mind to her betrayWhere barriers to her flight are found.She shuns them all by tact and skill;Most gladly she to him will proveThe power that's in a woman's will,The faith that's in a woman's love.
From hill and ledge she scans the groundWhile dangers seem her faith to mock;But highest point by her is found,She stands upon the swaying rock,Which seems unsteady 'neath her feet,And makes her doubt if she can standTo make inspection so complete,She may discernPonomo'sband.The trembling rock and trembling heartAre firmly fixed, no power can move;But from its crest she must departIn search of him her heart doth love.She stands beside the central lakeAlong whose shores the war-whoop rang,And softly for her own heart's sake,This song of harvest-moon she sang:
"The hunter's moon now floods the nightTurns darkness into day,The wood and lake in mellow light,Charm grief and care away.
"The sparkling water's silvery gleamMy sorrow soothes for me,And lifts my soul in fancy's dreamTo thoughts so pure and free.
"So bright the light that fills the night,The song-birds sweetly sing;From tree to tree they take their flightOn swift yet noiseless wing.
"Now come,Ponomo, come to me,I wait your coming here;You promised 'neath this hemlock tree,At midnight to appear.
"My heart, my life, my all is yours,And you are all to me;Faith trusts your promise and assuresUnchanged fidelity.
"I know your heart is warm and true,Your love not cold or dumb,No earthly power can it subdue;I know that you will come."
She hears a footstep drawing near;Her voice is mute, her song is done,She waits,Ponomoto appear,In shadowed silence all alone.Beneath lugubrious hemlock shadeHer heart beats with expectancy,And Kitchewonk's own dusky maidTrusts Rippowam's fidelity.He comes! She sees him near the lake;She knows his form, his step, his voice;No other charm for her could makeHer heart and soul so much rejoice.
They meet beside the water's edgeWhere hemlock boughs in silence nod,And there with mutual vow and pledge,In presence of their living God,They join the hand, the heart, the life,While harvest-moon a witness stood,That he the husband, she the wife,Should share in life's vicissitude.That sacred pledge was heard on highAnd written by an angel hand,Nor priest, nor king, nor majesty,Could marriage rites perform more grand.
No tribal laws or priestly handCan rivet adverse hearts in one;Compulsion has no iron bandSo strong it may not be undone;But ties of mutual interestThat spring spontaneous from the soul,Are never by themselves oppressed,Their silken cords have full control.To know, to feel, to fully shareThe joys and sorrows of this life,Unites the souls of mated pair,And make the husband and the wife.
PonomoandAlmetathere,Where juts of rocks 'neath hemlock boughs,Had breathed a mutual, fervent prayer,And each to each pledged sacred vows,When o'er the lake the war-whoop rang,And Kitchewonks, on every side,Swept down with shout and yell and clang,UponPonomoand his bride.On north and south, and on the west,No way of flight then could they take,So from the rough rocks' rugged sideThey plunged into the central lake.
A hundred arrows cleft the air,But one alone had reached its mark.Ponomofelt it roughly tearIts way into his faithful heart.He shrieked and sank beneath the wave,Almetafollowed after him;Their bridal couch was watery grave,The war-whoop was their requiem.
The savage yell of victoryRe-echoed then from shore to shore,While every rock and every treeSeemed deeply tinged with human gore,For when the moon from heavenly throneLooked down and saw the ghastly deed,It veiled itself and feebly shone,As if in agony to pleadThat human souls might ever knowThat God himself cannot approveThe hand that strikes avenging blow,The soul devoid fraternal love.
'Neath crystal waters of the lake,In silent, undisturbed repose,Where sounds of strife no slumbers break,Heedless alike of friends and foes,They slept the long, long sleep of death,Through centuries of rolling years,While o'er their forms the zephyrs' breathIn playful eddyings oft appears.Their race has faded from the shoreAnd left few traces that they were;The war-whoop now resounds no more,They bowed before White Conqueror.Full many a fathom 'neath the wave,Their forms have mouldered side by side,While shadowy hemlocks fringe the graveOf darkPonomoand his bride.
The waters then were deeper madeWhich gave their spirits much unrest,The lake their agony betrayedAnd seemed on every side distressed.One spring when Nature gaily dressedWith charms that could the mind beguile,There rose upon the lake's fair breastA hibernating, floating isle.Devoid of life it seemed at first,Chaotic, dull, with beauty none,But rays of sunshine on it burstAnd changed it to a paragon.
Two alders sprang from near its edgeAnd twined in close embrace,While ferns and grass gave certain pledgeThat Time should give it smiling face.But when the frosts of autumn fellIt sank from sight, perchance to rest;No searching mind could ever tellThe secret of its rising crest.For years, at each returning spring,The isle would rise from 'neath the wave,As if to memory to bringPonomoandAlmeta'sgrave.But when the harvest-moon shone bright,It meekly sank; as years beforeWhen on that dread, but fatal night,The faithful sank by rock-bound shore.
Its verdure grew, its alders spread,Its fame extended many a mile,'Twas type of resurrected dead—This hibernating, floating isle.
But vandal hands destroyed the prizeAnd sank it 'neath a weight of stones,WhileAlmetasends forth her sighs,AndPonomoemits his groans.Here let them rest, if rest they may,Amid the beauteous scenes around,And wait in peace the final day,When at the angel's trumpet sound,The water shall give up its prey,The earth shall full surrender make,For heaven has not a type to-day,More perfect than this sky-blue lake.